


Better or Worse

by feistymuffin



Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Happy Ending, Life-threatening Illness, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:20:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27474166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feistymuffin/pseuds/feistymuffin
Summary: Paulknowsthat Patryck is sick. Now it’s just a matter of convincing him to see a damn doctor.
Relationships: Patryck/Paul (Eddsworld)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	Better or Worse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jazzii_Jazz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jazzii_Jazz/gifts).



> a delightful little trade fic for my friend, whose birthday is today as well !!! double whammy 2x combo BAM :>
> 
> enjoy!!

It started with a sniffle one morning in bed. Paul was just barely rousing from sleep, entertaining the idea of rolling over and crushing Patryck under his weight with some drowsy kisses and wandering hands, and then he heard it. Smothered by a hand or maybe a pillow, the sound was quiet but undoubtedly there. He thought the worst immediately—Did Pat have another nightmare? Did he wake up crying and Paul didn’t even _notice_?—and then he was hurrying to pull the covers away and check on his boyfriend.

When his face was revealed Patryck’s sleepy smile was sweeter than sugar, more dazzling than the sunshine dappling through the window shades, warmer than the bedding they were nestled in. Paul’s relief was abrupt and forceful, and he smiled back as his hands sought out the curves of Patryck’s jaw and held him safe and secure as his head bent.

But then he sniffled again and Paul froze, because upon closer inspection his nose was a little red, his face a little hotter than was appropriate, even for a toasty morning bed. Paul frowned, thumbs stroking along Patryck’s cheeks, but his boyfriend smiled and reached for him, and the thought was readily forgotten.

It plagued him that day at work, the heat of Patryck’s skin and the flush of his face, but even after they’d crawled out of bed and Paul was heading out the door Patryck had insisted that he felt fine. He waved Paul out the door with a handful of sniffles and a beaming smile, but it didn’t alleviate Paul’s concern.

That evening when he got home Pat was undoubtedly worse, with more frequent sniffling and permanently reddened cheeks, tiny coughs that Paul knew he was stifling, but even with Paul’s questions Patryck negated the potential for illness, murmuring that it was likely his allergies.

But Paul had never seen him get allergies in the middle of winter before, and even in summer they weren’t this bad. Pat’s allergies were mild at best, just a minor aggravation really, and Paul wasn’t quite sure what to do when his worry was delicately brushed off a second time.

The next day he was dozing in bed, trying to sleep in a little bit on his day off when he heard Patryck moving around the apartment. Possibly making himself some breakfast or maybe some tea, and then he started coughing. And coughing, and _coughing_ , and Paul was up out of bed in seconds when the coughs turned into wheezy barks that sounded terrible even at a distance.

“Pat?” he called, rushing out of the bedroom to find Patryck with a hand on the kitchen wall and the other firmly against his mouth with a tissue. “Pat, are you okay?”

Patryck nodded, eyes watering, and it took him a few moments before his coughs tapered off and he was able to speak. “I’m fine,” he croaked, and tacked on a little smile that did absolutely nothing to convince Paul of its truth.

“We should get you to a doctor,” Paul said firmly, taking Pat by the shoulders to look into his face. His dark hairline was finely beaded with sweat, his body warm under Paul’s hands and his floppy bangs sticking slightly to his damp skin, and Paul set his brow into a stern line as he reiterated, “Today.”

“It’s nothing, baby,” Patryck said, smiling that damned smile that made his chest fizzle with affection. “Just a cold, that’s all.”

Paul grumbled but let it go, pulling Patryck close to kiss the hot skin of his forehead. Sometime around lunch his condition had a significant nosedive though, and it took over half an hour of badgering to get Pat back into bed and let Paul do the cooking for a change.

Which brings him to his current situation, where he’s slamming a lid onto the overboiling pot of soup on the stove and rushing to remove it from the element, which is sizzling and spitting from the soup that’s already been spilled. He hastily sets it on the counter on a pot cozy but the lid slides off and he sloshes some soup onto his hand in the process. 

“Shit! Fuck!” Paul hisses with a sharp recoil. He quickly moves to the sink to run the cold water and hold his hand under the tap, sighing at his own ineptitude. _Can’t even make fucking soup,_ he chastises himself grumpily. _Should’ve used the damn microwave._

“Paul?” Patryck calls from their bedroom, worry plain in his tone. “Is everything okay?”

He winces as his hand throbs painfully, but he shuts off the tap and calls back, “Yeah, uh, just a little mishap. Everything’s fine.” He fills a bowl with steaming soup and grabs a spoon from the cutlery drawer, then brings it and two slices of buttered bread on a tray to the bedroom. 

When he walks in Patryck’s smile is delightfully soft, and he sits up against the headboard so Paul can set the tray in his lap. “Such a homemaker,” Pat teases him gently, and he tilts his face up for a kiss. Paul, who is a very weak man for his boyfriend on a good day, stoops to kiss his cheek once, twice, and a third lingering time before he steps back to sit at Patryck’s feet on the side of the bed. 

“Should I feed it to you?” Paul wonders, grinning devilishly, and he’s instantly happy as Patryck laughs. That happiness crashes and burns when it stirs Pat into a minor coughing fit, and it’s almost a minute before he can breathe normally again. 

Paul’s mood, soured by his own stupidity, must show because Pat reaches for his hand instead of the spoon, holding his fingers snugly and murmuring, “Don’t look like that, love. It’s not your fault.”

“The hell it isn’t,” Paul grunts, anxiously flexing and clenching his unheld, burned hand to the point of pain. “Just… eat your soup.”

Pat gives him a sad smile but doesn’t retract his hand, instead using his other to eat one slow spoonful at a time. Paul rubs his thumb over Patryck’s wrist, back and forth, in little swirls and crescent patterns, and as he does he wonders what it’ll take for Pat to agree that he needs medical attention. He’s not quite as mulish as Paul, nor is he a stupid man, so Paul is hoping it’ll only be another day at most before Patryck admits defeat. At some point he has to see that he won’t get any better without it.

Paul makes Patryck call in sick for his night shift, which he does so reluctantly, and he also takes a hefty dose of cold medicine to help with his symptoms. The remainder of their day is spent cuddling in bed watching movies on Patryck’s iPad in their pyjamas, blankets tucked up around them and pillows propped at Paul’s back so he can recline. Patryck’s head is cushioned on his chest and although Paul hasn’t ever worn a shirt to bed, as he feels Pat’s hot cheek against his pec, feels his chest hair rasping with every little nuzzle that Pat gives him, he wonders if it wasn’t too late to start wearing one after all. 

His body is purring to life, made no better by Pat’s gentle strokes across his belly. _Inappropriate,_ Paul growls at himself. _You are not allowed to jump your boyfriend’s bones when he’s sick as a dog._

“Baby, relax,” Pat mumbles, and turns his head to press a lingering, sensual kiss on the centre of his chest. “Your heart’s going a mile a minute.”

Paul groans softly, lifting a hand to pause Pat’s where it’s teasing the skin around his navel. “Are you doing this on purpose?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Patryck whispers to his sternum, which is as good an answer as any.

“Pat,” Paul warns as his body begs him to shut up, “come on, you’re in no condition to, uh… instigate anything right now.” 

He can sense Patryck’s pout, and Paul cups a hand at his ear to coax him to look up. His disappointed expression, made so much more potent with his big brown eyes, hits Paul right in the heart but he still smiles, albeit a little ruefully. “It’s not because I don’t want it, and you know that.” He presses a kiss to his boyfriend’s hair, squeezing him close with his other arm that’s curled around Pat’s back. “I could never live with myself if I made you feel worse because I couldn’t keep my dick under control.”

“Yeah, I know,” Patryck sighs, nodding with evident misery, and replaces his ear on Paul’s chest to continue watching the movie. Paul makes sure to kiss his hair at every possible opportunity, rubbing his back in big soothing circles, and by the time credits are rolling down the screen Pat is sleeping soundly.

* * *

The sound of brutal, hacking coughs is what jerks Paul out of a dead sleep sometime before sunrise, and at once he’s scrambling out of bed to find Pat in the bathroom, head hung over the sink as he coughs up globs of yellow-green phlegm. It sounds terrible, it looks gross, and Paul’s heart takes a strong hit when he notices that there are streaks down his face from countless tears.

Paul approaches him and curls a hand around his broiling nape, petting the hair there as he hums out, “How long have you been up?”

Patryck sniffles, spits into the sink and cranks the faucet to rinse out the basin. “About an hour,” he says hoarsely. “I threw up first, and then when my stomach was… _definitely_ empty I started coughing up this crap.”

“Oh, Pat,” Paul says miserably, and brings him close to kiss his tear-stained cheek. “I really think we should take you to the hospital. This seems serious, and it’s getting worse.”

Pat nods with another deep sniffle, scrabbling weakly for the toilet tissue roll to rip some off and blow his nose. Paul’s chest aches for him, seeing him so unwell, and he says softly, “Why don’t you take a hot shower before we go? It might help.”

“Okay,” Pat mumbles, and Paul gives him another small, sweet kiss before leaving him to shower. He packs an overnight bag—extra clothes, some toiletries and their toothbrushes—and grabs his and Patryck’s wallets and medical information before stuffing them all into the bag with a box of tissues and some cold medicine to take in the meantime if needed. He calls a cab since neither of them owns a car, and he’s told there’s one nearby that will be there in minutes.

He’s just coming back down the hall to the bathroom when he hears the tell-tale, violent squeak of skin against porcelain followed by the harsh rattling of the shower curtain, and he bursts into the bathroom to see Patryck in the shower, clinging to the curtain with both hands as he wobbles dangerously. Paul takes the gap between them in two steps and manages to grab Pat around his biceps before he can fall further. 

“Baby, are you okay?” Paul blurts worriedly, gently helping Pat out of the tub.

“Yeah, I… I just… got dizzy, is all,” Pat mutters. He’s naked and dripping all over the floor, all over Paul, but he couldn’t care less as he runs his hands searchingly over Pat’s head and body, looking for injuries.

“Did you hit anything?” Paul asks him, and he tries not to be forceful with the words but it still comes out sounding terse.

Pat slowly shakes his head. “No, just slipped,” he mumbles. 

“Okay, c’mere and sit down.” Paul grabs a towel off the rack on the wall and swathes Patryck in it, sitting him down on the closed toilet seat and getting a second towel to dry his hair. As he does, Paul tries to quell his growing concern when Patryck sways with his movements, as if his body lacks all the tension necessary to sit upright properly. “I’m gonna grab you some clothes, I’ll be right back.”

Paul races to their bedroom and grabs the first clothing articles he comes across in their dresser, and when he’s coming back to Pat he can hear it before he sees him leaning over the sink again, coughing up more gunk. Silently he rubs Pat’s back through the towel as he gags and hocks up phlegm, but when the final blob comes out tinted red Paul’s heart stops.

 _Don’t panic, do not panic,_ he tells himself firmly, hastily, over and over as he helps Patryck get dressed. Once he’s presentable and his hair is mostly dry Paul leads him to the front door and bundles him up in a coat, hat, boots, and mitts before doing the same for himself. It’s freezing outside, a windy and cold December day, and it’s made even worse by the fact that the sun hasn’t risen yet. He calls the cab company again to confirm that it’s waiting outside, which it is, and then he grabs the overnight bag, locks the front door and herds Patryck downstairs and into the cab. 

The ride is short since the day’s traffic hasn’t begun yet, but Paul is dismayed to see that after they arrive and he pays the cab driver, the waiting room is pretty full of people. Still, he coaxes Patryck inside as he coughs and sniffles into a tissue and then sits him in a seat as close to the front desk as he can manage. He grabs Pat’s medical paperwork and heads to the desk.

Before he can get more than thirty words describing Pat’s symptoms out of his mouth the nurse behind the desk is stopping him with a raised hand and saying sternly, “Grab your things, please, and bring your boyfriend this way. He needs to be in the ER. Now.”

He slings the overnight bag onto his shoulder and grabs Pat’s hand to guide him along as he foggily snuffles into a tissue, and although his footsteps are not quite steady he almost keeps up with Paul’s panicked speed walking. 

The room that the nurse leads them into is larger but much less populated than the clinic waiting room, and Paul is about to ask if they should sit down when the first nurse says to one of the ER nurses behind the desk, “He needs to go in right away.” She turns to them and then adds, “Explain his symptoms and give your information, and they’ll take it from there.”

“Thank you,” Paul says, so grateful beyond those simple words, and the nurse gives them both a small smile before she leaves the way they came.

The check-in process goes quicker than Paul expects once he hands over Pat’s medical card and explains the situation. They get him admitted before any other patient waiting in the ER but Paul can’t find it in him to feel bad about jumping the line. Patryck has to be okay, first and foremost. He has to.

* * *

The ER doctor assigned to them, Dr. Duploy, is a nice older woman who reminds Paul of his grandmother, with her little quirky smiles and expressive face. She gets Pat settled into a hospital room with one other person in it, a very ill young lady with her parents, and once Pat’s changed into a hospital gown and resting in the bed, they start taking blood for tests and asking about symptom specifics. Paul relays most of it to save Pat the trouble, but there are some things he has to defer to him for. Questions that, if it was up to Paul, he never would have to hear anyone ask his boyfriend ever again.

_“On a scale of one to ten, where do you think your current physical wellness would be?”_

_“… Two.”_

He hates that one the most, especially for the quiet tone that Patryck spoke in. Because Paul knows without asking that he didn’t want to answer that question truthfully with Paul in the room. Because it _is_ that bad, and Pat doesn’t want him to worry even though they both know it’s way too late for that.

By the time lunch rolls around Paul notices, as does Dr. Duploy, a decline in Patryck’s condition. He’s restless whenever he dozes off, his fever is getting worse, and his expungement of phlegm and now the occasional tinge of blood from his lungs doesn’t slow down either. Within a couple hours they take him for an MRI scan to see what’s going on internally, and when Dr. Duploy finally gets back to them sometime around dinner she has the results.

She gives them the rundown: it’s a bad case of the flu with an additional complication of pneumonia, which is causing way too much fluid/phlegm buildup in his lungs and wearing out his body to boot. Patryck nods along but Paul can see something cross through his mind that he never thought he’d see, something bleak and dark, and to put a name to it would make it too real so he simply ignores it and squeezes Pat’s hand a little tighter. 

Dr. Duploy leaves them after that, telling them she’ll be back within half an hour with some medication that will help break up the phlegm and hopefully assuage some of the coughing as well. It’s not as soon as he’d like but Paul knows badgering the nurses or doctors won’t get him anywhere. Even if he really, really wants to.

Patryck has been sleeping for hours, new medications taken and his left hand set up with an IV drip to get some nutrients into his body since he couldn’t keep his dinner down, and Dr. Duploy comes by to check on him just before sundown. She doesn’t wake him, just checks his vitals and makes observations about how things are working.

“Everything seems alright. He’s responding well,” she says quietly and gives Paul a smile. The “for now” is missing but Paul hears it all the same, and her smile lacks the levity that her previous ones have had by a wide margin. The news may be good—that he can believe—but then she offers the addendum, “However, I think it would be prudent to be… realistic. He was already very bad when he came in, and modern medicine can only do so much.” And judging by the look on her face as she leaves the room… the treatment itself may have been too late to make a difference.

Paul sinks down into the chair at Patryck’s bedside, fumbling to find his hand in the sheets and grab it like a lifeline. This can’t be the way things happen. It _can’t_ be. They haven’t had enough time together, not nearly enough fucking time, and it’s with a soul-deep pain that he acknowledges that it may have run out whether he likes it or not. The thought kills a piece of him, swift and sure like a bullet, and Paul won’t be held responsible for the litany of curses he lets out, quiet and forsaken, into the room.

His vision is blurring, swimming and distorting into abstract and confusing shapes, and it takes him a moment to realize he’s crying. He sniffles and presses his forehead to the back of Pat’s hand, kisses his knuckles over and over until he’s sure he looks like a lunatic. 

“You can’t go,” he whimpers, voice breaking with emotion. He peers up at Patryck’s lax face, his peaceful expression that occasionally twitches with discomfort. It’s such a beautiful face, and so entirely wasted on someone like Paul, someone who doesn’t act affectionate in public or spoil Patryck regularly with nice dinner dates or a surprise weekend getaway or a small gift that reminds Paul of him. He lost so much time just basking in the knowledge that Patryck _chose_ him, wasting weekends staying in their apartment instead of going out to make memories… and now he might not have the chance to make any more of them.

He doesn’t know how long he lies there, face down in the bedding with Pat’s hand securely in both of his, but eventually his body exhausts his tears and his mind can no longer cycle through the one outcome that will destroy him. So he sleeps.

* * *

“Paul?”

His eyes flutter open at the croaky voice, and he lifts his head to blink blearily around the room with eyes that ache. The sky outside the window is dark but the lights are on in the room, and as Paul straightens from his low hunch he’s reminded of the newest reality of his life all over again.

He jerks up and focuses on Patryck in the bed—Patryck, who’s staring at him with tired but _cognisant_ eyes, looking so incredibly beautiful even with his pale complexion and reddened nose that Paul staggers to his feet, clattering his chair noisily to the floor, and bends over Patryck’s bed to kiss his face with the kind of reverence most people reserve for their deity.

“Paul,” Pat murmurs again, but this time it’s so much softer. When Paul pulls back to look at him Patryck’s face is eloquent with emotion, full to the brim with the love Paul feels all the way to his fucking _toes_ , and he murmurs with a sleepy but coquettish little smile, “Have you been worrying again, baby?”

Paul’s laugh bursts out of his chest as more of a sob, and he presses his forehead to Patryck’s gently, eagerly, seeking the comfort that only he can provide. “Yeah,” he says, sniffling and chuckling, and he feels his eyes watering again but he doesn’t care. “A little bit.”

Pat’s hands come up to curve delicately around Paul’s neck, fingertips playing with the curly hair at his nape. He coughs a little as he starts cooing affectionate nonsense to him, but it lacks the barking wheeze of before and even in his obviously weakened state Pat looks so improved that Paul’s next laugh is one of complete and utter relief.

“You’re never leaving the apartment ever again,” Paul says. He aims for stern but when he speaks it comes out so loving that he watches the tears well up in Patryck’s eyes. 

Patryck smiles at him, the sort of smile that he could live off of for a decade at least, and as Paul plants a tender kiss to his brow Pat simply says, “Deal.”

* * *

“So much for our dinner date, huh?” Patryck muses, peering through the living room window to the howling blizzard outside. He has a mug of hot cocoa cupped in both hands and a throw blanket wrapped around his shoulders. His hair is still messy from their cuddling earlier that day and he looks cozy and precious. Paul couldn’t love him more if he tried.

“Yeah, guess so,” Paul mutters. He smooths his hand over his right jeans pocket for the hundredth time that day, feeling for the little hoop hidden within, and alongside his anxiety he feels disappointment for the ruined evening. He had it all planned out to near perfection, and then… a fucking storm hits the city so hard that even local travel isn’t advised. 

“Don’t be so sour, hun,” Pat murmurs, beckoning Paul over with a come-hither curl of his finger. Paul goes readily, and his heartbeat trips and then gallops when Patryck sets his drink down on the windowsill to spread both hands lovingly over Paul’s chest. “I’m sure we can think of some way to make the evening worthwhile.”

Paul grins crookedly, leaning forward into Patryck’s movement so their mouths meet in the middle. The kiss is sweet, growing in heat and depth with every breath but Paul knows his distraction is showing. His nerves have rooted soundly in his stomach, his mind blazing with worry and countless questions— _What will he say? How will he react? Am I doing this too soon? Too late? What if he says no?_ —even with the perfect temptation right in front of him. 

True to his suspicion, Patryck leans back and quirks an eyebrow at him, stroking his fingers through Paul’s hair as if revelling in its texture. “Where’s your head at? You feel so far away.”

“I…” Paul swallows. Although his belly is scrunching with anxiety he still lifts his eyes to Patryck’s face, seeing the mild concern there and wishing he had a more romantic setting, more time to set things up. Pat deserves to have all of those things and more, the whole candlelit dinner with soft music and a tender, loving ambience, enough gifts to sink a battleship, but Paul knows if he doesn’t do this now his nerve will fail him.

He just hopes that he’s enough to make up for the loss of a better time and place.

Patryck’s expression crumples slightly the longer Paul goes without speaking, and he murmurs with evident trepidation, “Is… is everything okay?”

Paul nods quickly, grabbing for Pat’s hands and squeezing them in his own with what’s probably an excess of force. “Y-yes, everything’s alright, I promise. I just… don’t know how to say this.”

At that Patryck looks no more at ease than before, but he gives a tiny nod and smiles. Paul wants to slap himself for the tint of fear in his boyfriend’s face but the sooner he gets this out, the sooner Patryck will—hopefully—be happy again.

“I’m… You know I’m shit with words,” Paul blurts, and then winces. Pat laughs softly, nodding his agreement, and his new smile is more genuine. “I know this has probably been… overdue for a long time, and I don’t know how the hell you’ve had the patience to wait for me to get my shit together. But…” 

He swallows again, and then meets Pat’s eyes with a look he hopes is conveying everything he’s felt for the man in front of him. “Last month, when I almost lost… When you almost…” He clears his throat to rid his voice of its emotional warble and basks in the sympathetic, comforting and slightly guilty smile that Patryck gives him. His boyfriend squeezes his hands and rubs his thumbs over Paul’s knuckles in such an affectionate, soothing way that Paul feels his nerves solidifying into confidence.

“After your hospital stay I knew I needed to show you what you mean to me, and I’m so goddamn sorry it took an experience like that to kick my ass into gear but it’s… it’s always been you, for me.” He lets go of Pat’s left hand to dig in his pocket, hoping as he does that it’s not too stupid to have forewent the pretty little velvet box, and he takes out the simple golden band and shows it to Patryck, whose face has gone slack with shock. 

Paul smiles a little, biting his bottom lip before paving on, “I’m hoping that the feeling is mutual, otherwise my next question is gonna be a real bust—” Here Pat gives a short laugh, but it ends in a little sob and his free hand comes up to cover his mouth as he blinks back tears, “—but… Patryck, love of my whole life, would you marry me?”

Pat’s following smile is watery, expression flickering between disbelief and giddiness, and for a moment Paul thinks he won’t say a thing. But then he extends his left hand out, fingers slightly splayed, and with happiness crinkling his eyes he murmurs, “What a ridiculous question. Of course I’m going to marry you.”

The exhale that Paul lets out is nearly explosive, and his responding grin won’t be contained. His hand shakes as he slides the ring onto Pat’s finger, but then there’s nothing left to do but kiss his boyfriend—his _fiancé_ —and when their lips touch Paul feels his heart fall into place like a key in its lock.


End file.
